


yes, yes of course, this is going to hurt

by alcibiades



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Dehumanization, Dissociation, HYDRA Trash Party, Hallucinations, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Solitary Confinement, all the winter soldier tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 08:53:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2222994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcibiades/pseuds/alcibiades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hydra trash meme prompt: During a programming session, Bucky Barnes vividly hallucinates being raped by the Winter soldier. Additional warnings for a little bit of body horror and mention of spiders. Proceed with caution.</p><p>-</p><p>They leave him in a cell that has no windows and a heavy metal door. He slumps into a corner; his body is shaking all over, freezing cold and wet with some kind of icy slurry that drip-drip-drips into a puddle around him. He tries to ask them where he is, what they're doing, but his tongue is like a lead weight in his mouth and the best he manages are a few wordless groans.</p><p>"Leave him there," says a voice from outside the door, as it swings closed. "He'll be back to normal in a couple of hours."</p>
            </blockquote>





	yes, yes of course, this is going to hurt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mr-finch (soubriquet)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soubriquet/gifts).



> Title courtesy of [Nine Inch Nails.](http://youtu.be/9uzYmoDRKsI)

They leave him in a cell that has no windows and a heavy metal door. He slumps into a corner; his body is shaking all over, freezing cold and wet with some kind of icy slurry that drip-drip-drips into a puddle around him. He tries to ask them where he is, what they're doing, but his tongue is like a lead weight in his mouth and the best he manages are a few wordless groans.

"Leave him there," says a voice from outside the door, as it swings closed. "He'll be back to normal in a couple of hours."

His body shudders wildly, like he's a puppet and some cruel child is yanking on his strings. His eyes won't quite focus, and when he tries to get to his feet, the world lurches, and he passes out instead.

When he wakes up again his face is pressed against the floor. The walls are kind of - it looks like they're breathing, swaying in and out, but he figures at least it's an improvement over his whole body seizing up. He tries to sit up and -- and --

\-- and he doesn't have a left arm -- it's -- there's nothing there, and he -- he reaches up to touch it and something screams in his brain, and for a second his stomach drops out and there's an intense undertow of vertigo, like he's falling, and someone is yelling his name - Bucky, that's him, right? It seems right -- and the second his fingers make contact with his shoulder, his whole body lurches and he yanks his fingers away as if they've been burned. It feels like they were burned.

He pushes himself up with his right arm, sweating and panting from the force of the -- memory, hallucination, whatever. Thickly, he finds himself asking, "Steve?" and he hears someone else's voice -- a small voice, but cruelly gleeful, say, "Your friend won't be coming for you this time, soldier."

His head snaps toward the sound of the voice, but there's nobody there. He reaches up again and touches his fingertips to his shoulder, gritting his teeth this time against his whole body and mind frantically yelling at him to _STOP, DON'T DO THAT,_ and he feels something - a socket, but it doesn't feel like bone (how does he know what bone feels like?) - and it's not at the right angle for him to be able to see it, no matter how he cranes his neck.

He only lasts a few seconds before yanking his fingers away again. When he lifts his head, he jerks back again, because now there is somebody else in the room. He's sort of flickering in and out like a jerky film reel, and he doesn't respond when Bucky says, "Hey!" 

It's weirdly difficult to focus on him. Bucky doesn't know whether it's his eyes or if it's something about this other guy, but he can only look straight at him for a couple of seconds at a time. He's wearing all-black, all the way up to his hair. His face is covered in some kind of mask and he's -- got a metal arm. _Maybe that's what they're going to do to me,_ Bucky thinks to himself hysterically. _Give me a metal arm and some combat gear, send me out on the streets_. He almost laughs. Almost. 

_Steve_ , he wonders, _Steve, how could you leave me here? How could you let them do this to me? Where are you?_

"Well, you died, pal," Steve says ruefully from somewhere above Bucky's head. "What was I supposed to do?" Bucky glances up at him and he shrugs, his coat rippling with the motion, far too big on his skinny frame, and Bucky blinks and he's -- not there at all, jesus christ. 

The guy across the room from him starts moving, coming toward Bucky with an intent that Bucky'd be able to read even if the other guy wasn't telegraphing it clearly in every footstep; Bucky has a lot of experience recognizing when somebody's spoiling for a fight. He scoots on his ass until his back hits the wall, holding his hands -- his hand, fuck -- up in a conciliatory gesture. "Hey, hey, hey," he pleads. "Listen, I don't know what's going on. I just wanna know where I am. I don't know what's happening, I don't wanna fight --" 

The guy backhands him with the metal arm with such force that Bucky feels like his entire head is exploding. He's never been hit hard enough to see stars before, but in this instant, he gets what that saying is about. Something -- several somethings, probably -- in his face breaks, he hits the back of his head hard against the wall, and when he sags forward again his chin drops like his strings have been cut. 

His breath rattles wetly. He's surprised he's not spitting teeth. His nose and mouth drip little red droplets that fall steadily, and as they hit the ground they turn into the tiniest red spiders and scurry away from him, running toward the seams of the walls and disappearing. _Good for you,_ he thinks. _Get the fuck out of here._

The metal hand (he can tell it's the metal one because it's cold, so cold against his scalp) grips his hair and yanks his head upward. When did his hair get so long? He doesn't look at the other guy, and as if in response, the other guy drags him bodily by his hair out into the center of the room and sort of throws him down on his belly. Bucky yells at the pain - his face fucking hurts, but being dragged by the hair feels like his whole scalp is being ripped off, and he can't help the yell even though he wants desperately to be silent. 

He rolls over through the haze and tries to fend the guy off with his one hand, but whoever he is, the other man clearly has a lot of hand-to-hand combat training, more than Bucky for sure, and he has two arms. It's not a fair fight. Steve would be mad as hell. 

The guy gets between Bucky's legs with the metal hand around Bucky's throat, but he won't squeeze hard enough to make Bucky pass out, just enough that Bucky can't catch his breath. He keeps knocking Bucky's head back against the floor, and it makes him see stars again and again. Somewhere in the back of his mind that's not occupied with pain and fear, Bucky's aware that he's got tears running down his face - the reflexive, instinctual kind, his body reacting to pain without his express permission. 

"Please," he gurgles. The other guy picks him up effortlessly and flips him back over, one hand on the back of Bucky's head (the flesh hand this time) and presses his face against the floor. Bucky scrabbles wildly, knees and fingers working, but with the full weight of the soldier on top of him he can't get anywhere. 

He doesn't realize what the intent is here until he hears a zipper, and the metal hand yanks his hips up. Then he starts yelling again, trying to turn his head, but the soldier just mashes his face against the floor harder. 

It fucking -- if being dragged across the floor by his hair was bad, this feels like being torn in half. His yells have turned into screams now, and there's no words in them anymore, just agony. He can't even make himself say stop, can't beg. Every time the guy thrusts into him, it feels like touching an open flame; if it gets a little easier, gradually, starts to feel a little wetter, any relief is precluded by the realization that the wetness is just blood. 

The soldier's hips work like a piston, steady and forceful and apparently firing on all cylinders. _This guy is a champion fucker_ , Bucky thinks, and he laughs hysterically and sobs and screams, his teeth cutting into his lips. There's no sound from the man above him; he hasn't said a word this entire time, and Bucky can't even hear him breathing. All he can hear are his own cries, echoing in his head amidst a jumble of meaningless, half-formed thoughts. 

The worst part is that he knows somehow he wouldn't have been opposed to, well, the act of it, anyway. He has a vague sense of certainty that he probably mulled it over and came up on the "maybe if I ever get a chance" end of things. That sort of feeling where you know something's pretty unlikely but you look forward to being proven wrong. But he didn't imagine this. Not this. Not like this. 

He wonders, too, if this is how women felt when he was fucking them - after they'd already come, when he was finishing himself off. It seems like it's been forever, half an hour at least, and every slide is like someone's dragging sandpaper along his insides. It doesn't hurt as much any more, but that's not a lot of comfort. 

He closes his eyes and -- somehow he goes somewhere else for a while. He's climbing an endless set of stairs to a wooden door. It smells like onions and his mouth waters, and he opens the door (what a shithole, but oh my god it's so fucking beautiful) and takes off his coat and shoes. There's a skinny guy in the kitchen, a towel slung over his shoulder. He's humming to himself as he cooks, and after a second, he turns around and smiles widely at Bucky. Just this little jackass, big blue doe eyes and a sharp nose; he always tilts his chin up slightly when he talks, like he's daring you to argue with him, and he's got a hell of a chip on his shoulder. The healing scrape on his left cheekbone is proof enough of that, and jesus christ, Bucky loves him, loves him so much, loves him like you love a part of yourself that's so precious to you you can't ever imagine letting it go or having it taken from you. 

"Dinner's almost ready," he says, and Bucky wants so badly to go toward him, to step forward into the room and belong there, but he can't; he's stuck just standing in the doorway. 

When he comes back to -- reality, hell, wherever this is -- he's alone in a room with no windows. He feels empty. Vacant. Hollowed, like a building burnt from the inside out. Nothing left of value. Nothing salvageable. 

When they open the cell door some time later, they find him face-down on the floor, his cheek resting in a puddle of melted coolant, glassy-eyed and silent. "You see?" says one of them. "Like I said; good as new. He just needed a little alone time." 


End file.
